


Signed, S.H.

by penpenguin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cute, Feels, First Kiss (eventually), Irene Adler Ships Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, John has a girlfriend, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Endgame, M/M, Mary Ships It, Mrs. Hudson Ships It, Mutual Pining, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2019-07-13 15:58:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16021220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penpenguin/pseuds/penpenguin
Summary: Sherlock is back. Against all rhyme or reason, Sherlock is back and life with John has returned to normal. Or as normal as it gets with a serial killer on the loose, leaving rather worrying clues for Sherlock. After all, anything threatening John Watson is sure to ruffle Sherlock's feathers. Especially after one of Sherlock's more concerning discoveries about himself and his whirlwind of emotions regarding his flatmate.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Johnlock fanfiction, and I have big plans for it to be amazing! Forewarning: I am a student and therefore I can't promise a steady update schedule, but I don't like leaving things unfinished, so it'll eat away at me until I put all of it up--which is pretty good motivation. 
> 
> Enjoy!

“No.” Sherlock knew he was being disagreeable. Surprising as that would be to some people, he often knew when he was being problematic, the thing was that he didn’t care. Most of them deserved it for one thing or another. John never deserved it. He was a good person, his moral compass being one of the more admirable qualities about him. Unfortunately, Sherlock also considered stubbornness one of the pinnacles of his personality, and figured John had dealt with worse than this before, and so had no reason to change for him. 

“Sherlock, please.” John made an effort to keep his voice steady, but he was exasperated. Almost to the point where he was willing to let Sherlock win. It was written, clear as day, in his eyes. 

“Did I stutter?” Sherlock stared at John intently, and a small voice in the back of his mind wondered whether or not thing whole thing would come down to a childish staring contest. 

When John looked away first, Sherlock couldn’t help but feel mildly triumphant, even if all he had won was ultimately harmful for him. But in all fairness, Sherlock really wasn’t hungry.

“I’m still going to get you some food, you know. It won’t do if the great Sherlock Holmes can’t function because he can’t take care of himself,” John cast a half smile in Sherlock’s direction as he grabbed his phone for some takeaway. 

John made an effort. John always made an effort for Sherlock, even when Sherlock didn’t want it or deserve it. It was pleasant, knowing that even when everyone despised him, John would at least hate him less and maybe even offer him some tea. 

Sherlock let his eyes wander around the flat, reflecting his current state of mind. He hadn’t had a suitable case in nearly a week, not that Scotland Yard hadn’t requested his help, they were just all immeasurably boring. He was aching for a good murder, maybe if he was lucky a serial killer. The last serial killer he’d had the pleasure of chasing was at least a couple months back; he was due for a new one.

“Your food.” John reappeared in the room with a large bag of Chinese takeaway. As if he sensed Sherlock’s oncoming reaction, he added, “You don’t have to eat it now, I just expect it to be at least half eaten by morning.” 

“Fine.” Sherlock muttered, watching John take a seat next to him on the couch and flick on the telly. 

It was some reality show about a bunch of women angling after a man--Sherlock found it awful in concept but in execution was much more interesting. Reality tv was carefully cut and edited so as to produce a singular image. However, they couldn’t hide everything about the participant’s lives, and Sherlock made himself a pleasant challenge of figuring out the personal lives of the participants.

“She’s gay.” Sherlock placidly spoke about halfway through the show, startling John.

“What?” John asked. He had been listening to the girl gushing about her date with the man they were all clamoring for, and hadn't expected Sherlock to pay any sort of attention. 

“Her. She’s not here for the guy. She’s grown attached to the redhead; she’s here because it’s their only connection, they’re from different parts of the country and will likely never see each other after the close of this show.” 

“Incredible.” John praised earnestly, an astonished look in his eye.

Sherlock knew John would compliment him after such a deduction, he often did, and yet Sherlock still felt a smile edging onto his face. It had to be in the hundreds, the amount of times John had said something of the like, but hearing him say it still evoked a warm knot in his stomach. The sensation made Sherlock almost understand why people chased friendships and relationships with such enthusiasm. Except he didn’t really desire any other friendships but with John. After all, John was the best type of person. John put up with him. Not even just put up with him or tolerated him, John actually enjoyed Sherlock’s company. Like now, for instance, as John began asking for all Sherlock could glean on everyone who showed their face on the television. 

“And what about him? The guy at the center of it all.” John requested, pointing at the fairly attractive man on the screen.

Well, he would be attractive if his hair were a little more golden, maybe cut a bit shorter. Maybe if his eyes were a shade softer. Maybe if… Sherlock’s eyes slipped over to John, who was watching him with anticipation. Why? Oh. The (not particularly) attractive man on the television. 

Makeup was miserably failing to cover a dark hickey on the man’s neck. Fresh, from the night before. The camera angle changed, and showed his dark suit. 

“He had sex last night. With either the costume designer or makeup artist. Or both. He doesn’t want to be here. I would go as far as to say he was forced by an outside party.” Sherlock summarized briefly.

“Genius.” John expressed.

“I have been told that once or twice, yes.” Sherlock agreed, keeping his face still and trying to ignore the fluttering in his gut. One of his favourite things was the lack of ulterior motive in John’s eyes. Most people who complimented him in any way wanted something from him whether it was romantic in nature or they wanted him dead. But this was just John being impressed by Sherlock being Sherlock. And that felt quite nice.

Sherlock found his attention wandering from the telly and attaching itself more to the man seated next to him. Much to his surprise, John also seemed to be slowly distancing himself from the story and keeping an eye on Sherlock.

Their eyes caught, and Sherlock found himself reading John even more easily with the advantage of open access to the ‘windows to his soul.’ Sherlock was enthralled by the depth of John’s eyes, reminding him of the ocean at night. Soft and peaceful, but amazingly powerful.

Suddenly, John recoiled as if Sherlock’s eyes were causing him pain. Sherlock couldn’t help the confused look from sneaking onto his face, asking infinitely many questions that would have to go unanswered as his phone dinged loudly, interrupting the somewhat pleasant silence.

**We have a case. You’re gonna want it.**

“John!” Sherlock shouted, then quickly realised that was unnecessary as John was seated next to him. “Grab your coat, we’re going out.”

“A case?” John quickly stood and slipped his phone, wallet, and keys in his pocket. John, yet again, proved another reason Sherlock deeply appreciated him--at the drop of a hat, John would follow him nearly anywhere.

Sherlock nodded and the pair left the apartment in a rush, arriving to the address Lestrade specified in record time. 

It was a small flat, where the body was found, sparsely decorated and unassuming. Until one entered the bedroom and found the corpse. 

The man was lying on the immaculately made bed, shirtless, with one glaring detail practically shouted at Sherlock. On his chest, right over the heart, was a red and jagged ‘SH’ burned into his skin. His interest peaked, and Sherlock quickly walked around the body, making his observations.

His body was wrecked with cuts of different lengths and depths. All made with the same blade, and most in places where the killer could look the victim in the eye while he writhed in pain. Either this killer was incredibly cold, or the emotion in this murder was not directed at this particular victim. Glancing at the bright, blotchy ‘SH’ on his chest, Sherlock was leaning toward the latter. It wouldn’t be the first time that someone had killed because of him. 

“He is Captain Blake Everett, honorably discharged from the Royal Army because of a shot-” Lestrade started, but that detail of the Captain had already caught Sherlock’s eye, and he interrupted.

“His shoulder.” Like John’s. Sherlock glanced briefly at John’s face, searching for any discomfort, and when he didn’t find any, continued. “Wounded in action. You are looking for someone disgruntled about something I did.”

“Well, that shortens our suspect list,” Lestrade joked. 

John rolled his eyes, and Sherlock found himself nearly grinning despite Lestrade’s comment. He quickly tossed that thought away, enclosing it into a box in the back of his mind palace and locking it away. Mycroft’s voice echoed, taunting, in his mind.  _ Are you getting weak, brother mine? _

“No.” Sherlock startled, hearing his own voice aloud. 

Both Lestrade and John gave him odd looks that he was sure mirrored his own. 

“Have any ideas, Sherlock? What’s the deal?” Lestrade asked. “Right now our only suspect is his wife-”

“He has a wife? Big mistake. He’s gay. Very much.” Sherlock saw nearly all of the same characteristics in the victim’s pictures he had seen in Jim when they first were introduced. His mind took a short detour to wallow in his memories. All of the hurt he’d caused. John’s broken cry as he fell from that rooftop. He was shaken from his thoughts yet again, this time by the unbelievably idiotic conclusions of Anderson.

“Well, that gives it even more reason to be the wife-” Anderson was saying, but Sherlock didn’t allow him to finish.

“Stop. A five year old could’ve come to that conclusion.” 

“Then why haven’t you, a self-proclaimed genius, suggested it yet?” Anderson spoke triumphantly, but his smile shrank under Sherlock’s withering glare.

“Because apparently only a genius could see the reason it was so clearly not her, you insufferable imbecile.” Sherlock dismissed Anderson. “Care to explain, John?” 

John’s face was, unfortunately, blank. Sherlock had so hoped that he had trained John well enough to make his own observations, even if he was unable to piece it all together. 

“Uh… Explain what, exactly?” John was trying to buy himself time. He had no idea, but one thing he disliked more than appearing stupid around Sherlock was looking stupid around him when others were also present. He seemed to care quite a bit of others’ opinions of him, even when he should’ve learned to care many years past when they first began working together.

“It can’t be his wife because…” Sherlock looked st John expectantly. 

“Because…” John looked around frantically. His eyes shot around the room, looking at everything but seeing nothing.

“His wife doesn’t know about this apartment.” Sherlock sighed inwardly. “None of these pictures include her, but he cared about her. Not romantically, platonically. He didn’t want to hurt her feelings, the wedding ring is next to the sink and he has a slight tan on his finger so he wears it a bit, likely when around her. The tan means he is in her company often. The ring is inscribed with a heart and her name in excessively large cursive font. No indication of his name. She is demanding, very full of herself. She would require that she be featured on the mantle and walls. 

“And of course, there’s no drawer of her stuff and no drawers in the bathroom for any type of storage. Therefore, no female here.” Sherlock added as something of an afterthought.

“So she found out about it and attacked him here, then.” Anderson dug himself further into his hole.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Not broken into. His key isn’t on him. The killer was let in. He wouldn’t let in the wife, whom he cared about, into this apartment. Emotional damage, and the like. Besides, you surely don’t think he was killed here, do you? ” 

Lestrade muttered under his breath to Anderson.  _ Just stop. Look into her later. _

Sherlock shook his head slightly. The detectives often forgot that Sherlock made an effort to hone in all of his senses, so whispering behind his back for secrecy was futile. As Sherlock turned around to tell him so, he caught John’s eye.

“Fantastic. Yet again.” John smiled faintly.

Sherlock mirrored it, doing his best to ignore that recurring feeling in his stomach, the only word he could use to describe it being ‘fuzzy,’ though it was also undeniably nice. He blinked, realising that he and John had been looking at each other at least 15 seconds too long, and returned to his observations. 

He was unable to glean much more information from the victim about the killer, so he and John made their exit, but not before Sherlock had the opportunity to disprove three more ridiculous efforts of Anderson’s to implicate the wife in the murder and insist that Lestrade text him if any new information arises.

He and John made their way back to 221B Baker Street, but Sherlock no longer had any interest in the television shows on. He had a case, and that meant the game was on. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you like it! It's a little shorter, but the next couple chapters will make it worthwhile, I promise.

“Sherlock, why is this untouched?” John was less annoyed and more concerned with Sherlock’s well being. He was fairly sure Sherlock had yet to move from the couch, hunched over with his fingers pressed together resting lightly against his lips in what John knew was his standard thinking procedure.

“Sherlock?” He stepped over and lightly placed his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “You in there?”

“Yes, of course. I am permanently tied to my physical form.” Sherlock’s sarcastic response reassured John that he was at least somewhat alright.

“Sometimes I’m not sure.” John briefly thought about the many times he’d left Sherlock thinking to return much later and see him in the same position, unmoving. Occasionally, Sherlock would jump when John entered the flat, and be surprised John had left, or that hours had passed.

“Well?” Sherlock’s eyes opened, a peculiar cross between annoyance and something else reflected in his eyes. “I do hope you have brought me back here with a significant purpose in mind.”

“Your food from yesterday. Eat it.” John insisted, handing the small box to Sherlock. 

“Not hungry.” 

“It’s like living with a toddler. No this, no that.” John mocked, taking a seat across from Sherlock in his armchair. “Eat.” 

“No.” Sherlock refused.

“Yes. Or I’ll speak to your dear brother and we’ll see about restricting your access to one particular morgue.” John threatened, and saw faint anger flash in Sherlock’s eyes before being wrapped back under control.

“Fine.” Sherlock relented, and John smiled triumphantly. Bringing up Mycroft was a surefire way to successfully manipulate Sherlock. He almost felt guilt, but the number of times Sherlock had been an admittedly horrible person to him dwarfed this one instance.

Sherlock pouted as he sloppily tossed food into his mouth. He rarely took his time whilst eating meals, never wanting to waste time on ‘insignificant things’ like eating and sleeping when there was something better to do.

“Thank you.” John gave Sherlock a small smile, which Sherlock returned. Then he pressed his fingers together and hunched back over, and as far as John was concerned, had definitely left his physical form. 

“Oh, and Sherlock? Don’t expect me home tonight, I have a date with Alex.” John said as he tossed away the empty food box, his back to Sherlock, and therefore unaware of Sherlock’s urgent, curious gaze. 

“Alex? What’s he like? How long have you been involved?” The questions poured from Sherlock’s mouth.

John’s back stiffened and he felt his cheeks warm. “You, too, Sherlock? I’m not gay. It’s Alex, short for Alexandra. She’s my girlfriend. Has been for almost two years. Honestly, Sherlock, you’d think after this time, you’d at least pretend to be interested in my romantic life.” He huffed. Nearly everyone in his personal life thought he and Sherlock were a couple. It took months before he was able to convince Alex that he wasn’t into guys.

Sherlock remained silent. John, assuming he’d returned back to working on the case, took a seat on the couch and began typing away on his laptop, recording the activities entailed by the pair’s previous case.

 ~~~ 

The clock approached seven, and John, having gotten dressed for his dinner, said a brief goodbye to Sherlock before heading out and hailing a cab. The action always seemed more successful when his friend accompanied him, John thought, as two cabs passed him without stopping. However, the third one he saw pulled over and allowed him to get in and request a destination.

It took only a few minutes for John to arrive at the restaurant, and he headed inside.

“Hello, how many in your party?” The hostess asked with a wide smile.

“I’ll need a table for two, please.” John followed her to a table in the back corner of the restaurant, taking a seat, and sending Alex a quick text.

J: Let me know when you arrive 

A: Almost there love

John let a smile grow when he saw Alex’s text immediately after his own. At least someone in his life could be active on their phone, John thought. Sherlock often only responded when he thought it absolutely necessary, which was rare. Most of the time, Sherlock was the one texting him with locations of corpses or solutions to murders.

“Good evening, John,” Alex took the seat across from him, her soft smile balancing out her wild hair. It was always disheveled, and that day it was slightly more than most, but John really liked it. It made her look human, and that was something he much needed when his life with Sherlock was so riddled with death. 

“Hi, Alex. You look wonderful,” John complimented her honestly. She was wearing a tight dark purple dress that dragged John’s eyes up and down her body. It was definitely something new, or at least something John hadn’t yet seen on her. 

“Why thank you. You don’t look so bad yourself,” she smiled and placed her hands on the table, fiddling with her fingers, something John knew Alex did when she was mildly flustered. 

As they ordered, Alex’s sleeve slipped up, revealing a bright red cut on her arm. It was healing, but long and fairly deep.

The doctor in John rose to the surface. He couldn’t help but immediately start asking her questions about it. 

“Oh, it’s nothing. I was building some furniture for my apartment the other day, working at my brother’s, and just,” she sighed, embarrassed, “I was using a kitchen knife to undo a screw, and it slipped. What can you do, you know?”

John shook his head. All the people he grew attached to had the same element of spontaneity. He never knew what was coming; everyone had a surprise for him.

“Alex.” Even he noticed the stern element in his voice. “You need to take care of yourself! Last week it was rollerblading, this week it’s building furniture; what’ll it be next week?” 

“Don’t worry about it, love. I’m fine, just accident-prone.” Alex gave him a grin. She pulled her sleeve down as their waiter brought them waters and took their orders. 

John found himself enjoying their dinner quite a lot. It was good to get away from the murders and corpses often in his life, exchange them for a good time with his girlfriend. 

“It’s been too long since we’ve had a good date night. We should do this more often.” John slipped his hand into hers as they left the restaurant and walked towards her flat.

“Well, if you didn’t always have to leave for a case, maybe we would.” Alex joked, leaning into John.

It took them a few minutes of wandering to return to Alex’s place, a little third floor apartment in a newly built complex. 

“Want to come in for some coffee?” Alex offered lowly, lifting an eyebrow suggestively.

“You know, we have been dating for quite a while, you can be straightforward with me.” John answered with a nod. Living with Sherlock got him rather used to aggressively blunt comments.

Her living room was surprisingly furnished considering she had just moved in the week before and had been working the majority of the week. There was a small glass coffee table with a couch and recliner angled around it. She even had a real wood fireplace with darkened bricks above it. 

Alex took a seat on the couch, offering John a seat as well. 

He didn’t hesitate before sitting next to her and letting her press her lips to his. She unbuttoned his shirt hurriedly, pulling it away from his body. 

John saw no reason to remove her dress when it wasn’t getting in the way and simply lightly slipped his fingers along her inner thigh, loving the way her breathing hitched the higher he got. He smiled into her lips when she leaned far enough that she laid on top of him, knowing that tonight was going to get even better.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock paced back and forth across the flat, stepping on the furniture in his way. He hated this. Not the pacing, that was just his mediocre coping method. It wasn’t great, but it was better than resorting to the stash of cocaine hidden in John’s bedroom. Sherlock hated a lot of things, but this was undeniably in the top few, behind stupid people in charge, and followed immediately by his dear brother. 

John and his apparent girlfriend. It irked Sherlock, to say the least. It wasn’t that he disliked either of them on an individual level, although he didn’t try to hide his general disdain for the girl. Although he didn’t recall her when John mentioned her, he did remember briefly meeting her at their flat. She was pretty; she was compassionate; she was a woman. She was exactly what John needed.

It wouldn’t be long until John would be moving out, getting married, having kids… The thought of it, quite frankly, scared Sherlock. Very little scared Sherlock, but what did terrified him. And it all surrounded John. John who Sherlock had been so sure was interested in him. John that seemed so not straight. John that licked his lips the day they meant. Sherlock had limited knowledge on other people actually liking him, but the little he did know told him that John Watson was 100% undeniably gay. Yet, just in a fashion that only John had mastered, he kept Sherlock guessing at nearly every turn.

Sherlock tried to sit on the couch in the otherwise empty flat and wallow in his thoughts, but only succeeded in slowly getting more irritated. He had no real reason to be annoyed; after running through the evidence multiple times the best Sherlock could come up with was that he wanted for John to have only the best, but just wasn’t confident in Alex’s ability to deliver. 

In a sad attempt to distract himself from his mind, Sherlock focused on the case instead of his roommate’s antics.

He got information back from Lestrade regarding evidence found, but it was almost completely worthless. The only thing that gave Sherlock any new information was results regarding the Captain’s boyfriend, a Daniel Norman. Lestrade had supposedly already interviewed him to no avail, but Sherlock was unconvinced of his interrogation skills and decided to take a visit to Mr. Norman’s himself.  
Sherlock made his way to Daniel’s flat, completely disregarding the fact that it was about midnight. Streetlights shone a muted yellow in the darkness, doing just enough to illuminate the streets with an eerie glow. Sherlock turned his coat collar up against the cold, watched tendrils of his breath disappear into the night. His mind flashed to John and his girlfriend, wondering what they were doing to escape the cold and immediately regretting it. Sherlock strode through the shadows in London, his dark coat billowing around him and he slipped into a small run-down apartment building.

Sherlock rapped on the door of the apartment, and when no one answered and he glanced through the window. All of the lights were off, unsurprising considering it was the middle of the night, so he bent down by the door and proceeded to pick the lock.

He heard a soft click, and slowly pushed the door open. There was no alarm system audibly going off, so Sherlock rushed inside. He was greeted by seemingly out-of-place lavish furniture decorating the otherwise unexceptional living room; a quick glance in the kitchen told him it was rarely used, suggesting that Daniel spent a lot of time at his boyfriend’s place. Sherlock checked the fridge and found some old takeaway boxes, suggesting that the Captain had been spending more time with his wife recently. He ventured upstairs and continued to poke around. 

A closed door that he pushed open proved to be a bedroom with a man lying asleep in bed. Upon closer inspection, it seemed to be Daniel, so Sherlock placed a hand over the man’s mouth and tapped him awake.

Sherlock briefly marveled at the fear in Daniel’s eyes, but an image of John’s annoyance in the back of his mind roped him back to what he was doing. He couldn’t terrify Daniel too thoroughly, just enough to convince him of the significance of whatever information Daniel may be unaware he held.

“Do not scream. I will kill you.” Sherlock instructed, his voice flat. 

Daniel’s eyes were wide in fear, but he nodded. 

“I only need you to tell me everything you think you know about your boyfriend.” 

“I, uh, well, he… He loves dogs, not so much cats. He broke his leg in primary school; he was really worried the army wouldn’t take him because of it. He’d always had his heart set on armed forces--” Daniel started rattling off a bunch of worthless facts.

“Tell me about his wife.” 

“His what?” Daniel looked genuinely surprised. Off guard. Interesting, but unsurprising.

Daniel shook his head in disbelief before continuing. “I mean, Blake took forever to come out to himself but it was clear to everyone else long before that. How he managed to catch a wife beats me.”

Sherlock couldn’t help but let his thoughts shift briefly to John. For as much as he denied it, Sherlock had so hoped that John might swing the other way--there were quite a few signs, but Sherlock chalked it up to wishful thinking the first time John brought a girl home. Sherlock saw how he looked at his phone when he received texts from girls; a smile always drifted across his lips. 

Sherlock realised, after a moment, that Daniel had since stopped talking. 

“Um. Okay.” He wondered for exactly how long it had been. “Did Blake ever stay here?” 

“Rarely. He was here maybe once, when his apartment was being renovated, I think? He was getting his kitchen redone, or maybe it was his bathroom-”

“It was the kitchen,” Sherlock interrupted confidently, having made that connection previously, but let the other man continue.

“-he stayed here while it was being done. He disappeared a lot, though, that must’ve been him seeing his wife.” Daniel shrugged as casually as one could whilst laying down with Sherlock towering over him. 

“When was that? The remodeling.” Sherlock clarified at the confused look on Daniel’s face with mild annoyance.

“Oh, that would’ve been… Last year, Christmas, maybe?” Daniel bit his lip as he thought. “Yeah, would’ve had to be about that time.”

Sherlock nodded. “Very well. If you breathe a word about this to anyone, and I may have to put into motion one of the twenty-five different ways I have devised to kill you in the time we have spoken. Suffice it to say no one would find your body. Good-bye.” Sherlock turned, his coat following him with a flourish, and, silently pleased with his dramatic flair, he exited the apartment.

He returned to Baker Street and retrieved his violin. As of yet, this murder seemed to be out of the blue; nobody from the victim’s life stuck out to Sherlock and he’d been on the case for more than twelve hours. He had a rule of thumb, established a few years back--if there were no leads after Sherlock was on the case for upwards of twelve hours, the randomness only meant one thing: a serial killer. 

And having a serial killer meant that Sherlock had to play the waiting game, but it was always worth it.

So he stood, alone in the flat, drawing his bow across the willing strings of his violin, the melancholy tune waltzing its way through the night.

 

Sherlock knew John was making his way up the stairs before he bothered to announce himself. The extra weight on his right side suggested groceries, although the bag wasn’t big enough to scrape along the hallway, making it clear that was not the case. It was possible John had picked up the tongues from the morgue that Sherlock had been wanting, but considering John’s general distaste for St. Bart’s since Sherlock’s… incident, that didn’t make sense either. However, considering that it was a Saturday morning, and John had a surprisingly incessant need for sweet treats, odds were in his favor that John had brought-

“Biscuits, if you’d like. And I could make some tea.” John turned the corner and entered the flat, his tendency to cut off Sherlock’s thought process ever present. 

Sherlock smiled, getting up from his seat where he’d been catching himself up on Arcana of Human Anatomy, a personal favorite of his. It was a beast of a book, a heavy tome that Sherlock had only read a couple times previously, both of which he was high as a kite and had discarded all of the knowledge it held in its pages. The book had brought to his attention some interesting patterns of flesh, hence the need for fresh tongues.

“Yes on both counts.” Sherlock spoke abruptly, but John still looked surprised for a moment at Sherlock’s manners. John never had been good at concealing his emotions, except, for some odd reason, Sherlock could never figure out the enigma that was John’s opinion of him. Of course Sherlock knew when John was angry or displeased, he made it obvious enough, but it was in moments like these that Sherlock was unsure.

John gave Sherlock a quick smile before turning to the stove to heat some water.

“Any progress on the case?” John asked, as if he didn’t already know the answer.

“Enough that there’s nothing to do this afternoon. Not enough for it to be exciting.” Sherlock reopened his book and continued reading until the tea was ready, filing away some facts on the poisonous properties of patients that underwent chemotherapy in the weeks up to their demises.

It was rather inconvenient, learning new things. Sherlock’s mind palace had been, for lack of a better term, under construction, for quite a while, expanding to make room for new knowledge. The ‘John’ hall had been growing recently, and to make space, the others had shriveled. No matter. Sherlock would just do it all--he had a rather impressive habit of keeping his emotions cordoned off from the high-functioning machine that was his brain, and he did not intend to fail now. The ‘John’ hall was already kept under lock and key, only to be opened when Sherlock had hours of spare time to roam the memories and tabs he’d kept on his only true friend or to add more.  
John placed Sherlock’s tea in front of him, a pleasantly warm aroma greeting Sherlock’s senses, interrupting Sherlock’s thoughts yet again.

“What exactly did you figure out that has brought us to a stalemate?” 

Sherlock’s phone buzzed; it was another series of texts from Lestrade.

“It’s a serial killer.” Sherlock couldn’t keep the giddy smile from growing on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this was so long coming, school's been ridiculous. But the next chapter is already in the works, so it hopefully won't take too long. As always, leave kudos and comments as you see fit, and thank you for reading!


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